


A Little Tea Porn

by Iwantthatcoat



Series: So You Thought That "Forgive Me, Benedict" Was Offensive? [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jumper Fetish, Porn, Tea, Tea Porn, Tea as a drug, You may end up with a Taylor Swift song stuck in your head- author is not responsible for earworms, romantic crack- sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, he had had tea before, in the dorms at Uni. In shops, surrounded by strangers, after a late night fueled by cocaine and cigarettes. But it was never like this."</p><p>I couldn't leave poor Sherlock all alone, huddled up on the couch, milkless. Because I love him.<br/>In which Sherlock gets some comfort for his hurt in the form of a very, very nice cuppa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Tea Porn

 

So. John is evil. Evil John. Was John always evil, or was he, Sherlock Holmes, The World's Only Consulting Detective, somehow responsible for John having turned against him?

 

Maybe it is because he sabotaged every one of John's dates-- showing up unexpectedly at the same restaurant, mixing up their names, sending criminal syndicates after them, wearing the same outfit and somehow always managing to look much better in it?

 

Maybe it was the time he drugged the sugar? He recalled the scene, grin plastered on his face, equal parts determined and amiable, as he handed John that coffee mug. Of course the sugar wasn’t drugged, and he had apologized; he _had_ said never again. Never again would he be wrong about the sugar not being drugged. Was it when he had known John actually _was_ under the influence of a powerful, fear-inducing drug and he had locked John in the lab and... played... growling noises... over the lab’s sound system? Hmmmm. Perhaps he wasn’t on his best behavior during their trip to the Moors.

 

Maybe when he put John’s red pants into the wash along with the whites, turning the laundry (including his doctor’s coat) a rather alarming shade of pink? "PINK!” John had cried when he went to put the clothes in the dryer. He had only been trying to help.

 

Or maybe it was when he pretended to be dead for three years. That might have done it. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

If he could only think! He had been up all night listening to Taylor Swift’s “Trouble” over and over on his iPhone, thinking just how weird it is how certain songs seem like they're actually about your life, you know? He hadn’t eaten (but that was nothing new). Eventually, he must have fallen asleep. And now… as the early morning light filters through the London fog, as well as the curtains, he is awake... and he is thirsty. And not just a little bit thirsty; the thirst seems to consume him. He doesn't just want tea, he needs tea. It will get his brain back on track, soothe his jumbled nerves. Not Earl Grey though, because that smells like John. Or did John smell like Earl Grey? Well, something like that. He is hoping he can find some Irish Breakfast.

 

He looks around the flat. John had been by while Sherlock was sleeping to remove his belongings. Though only a few things are missing from the sitting room, it seems to Sherlock as if the whole of 221B is startlingly empty. He debates taking a shower (his shampoo smells like a combination of white truffles, Ghurka Black Dragon cigars, the Antillia Building in Mumbai and bergamot) and then getting dressed, but decides to put that off. The overwhelming need for tea compels him toward the kitchen.

 

As he struggles to his feet, he hears the ring of the doorbell, a thud, and then the quick shuffling noise of someone running. He doesn't feel like playing ding-dong-ditch this morning, but he has already gotten up, and the front door is steps away. More than 17, but he can still make it, he figures. He opens it, and there it is. On the front stoop. A cup of tea. And a quart of milk. He scans the street and catches a glimpse of sandy-blond hair and a dark, beautifully tailored coat fading into the distance.

 

 

He returns to the kitchen, moves a kidney aside to make room for the milk, and drinks the tea. It is cold.

 

“Sherlock, dear, how are you?” comes a voice from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson nearly bumps into him as he is heading back to his sitting room, lost in thought. "I brought you some tea and biscuits, and a five pound bag of sugar.” She looks uncertain. “I had a few extra and… I know John usually makes… _made_ the tea, so I... thought maybe..." She places the tray by the sofa, waits a moment for any attempt at conversation, and, finding none, turns to leave. "It's Irish Breakfast," she adds hastily, "so it won't smell like..."

 

“What is this?” interupts Sherlock, gesturing at the pot.

 

“It’s a tea cozy,” she says, lifting the wrapped pot, as if to pour some, then placing it gently down instead. “It’s meant to keep it hot. Let me know if I can help,” she says, knowing full well she can't. After all, she's his landlady, not his therapist.

 

He slaps on an entire box's worth of nicotine patches to help him think. What had John’s delivery meant? Was it a parting gift? A reconciliation? Poisoned? Sherlock decides some more tea would be most welcome. He wraps his impossibly long and improbably agile fingers around the handle and decides to be his own mother. He is quite surprised to still find wisps of steam.

 

Sherlock leans his face over the cup, inhales deeply, and brings it up to meet his cupid’s bow. When it makes contact, he parts his lips ever so slightly for just the tiniest taste, then he widens them, letting the sensation of hot tea pouring down his throat overwhelm him. He is unable to suppress a deep, resonating “mmmmmmmm,” as he tips his head back, lengthening his neck as the last drops of fluid find their way down. Oh, he had had tea before, in the dorms at Uni. In shops, surrounded by strangers, after a late night fueled by cocaine and cigarettes. But it was never like this. Warm, waiting, just for him. So this is why people stop all other activity at 4 p.m.! This glorious heat, filling his whole body. And all because of a deceptively simple bit of knotted yarn.

 

_A tea cozy. I want to wrap my teapot in a tea cozy every time, so it will stay hot just for me. I want to wrap myself in this tea cozy, and melt into it… to envelop myself in its warmth. It’s like a jumper for your tea. Jumpers are… good. I … want…a jumper. I want… John’s jumper. I want John’s oatmeal-colored jumper, right now._

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork: Drawbadsherlock


End file.
